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Writing

Weathered Wood upon My Rooftop

BirdHouse

Unrestrained weather attracts and repels me.

I have an outrageous desire to know the weather personally, but if that should happen, I would pray for deliverance and forgiveness. I would pray for the unwanted sunshine that is safe and free from peril.

Thunder, lightning, sleet, snow, hail, vigorous wind, torrential rain

I am afraid of it all, yet I tingle at the thought of the violence, the unpredictability, and the frenzy.

I am never more alive or more afraid than when the weather mocks me, teases me, consoles me.

Frightening weather tips my sense of order and routine, my tenuous grasp on a security that does not exist and never will.

This weather breathes on my neck, whispers in my ear, thrusts me into the maelstrom, and whips my brown eyes into chocolate milk. It lures me to the window to run my fingers along the quivering glass . . . and wait . . . and expect . . . and tremble in anticipation.

I close my eyes.

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About Ruthie Jones

Reading by Moonlight

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